


Fingerprints

by inkstainedwretch



Category: Star Trek
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Multi, hand!porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 19:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkstainedwretch/pseuds/inkstainedwretch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt on <a href="http://trekkink.livejournal.com/896.html?thread=18304&style=mine#t18304">trekkink</a>: <i>when Spock masturbates, he thinks of Jim and Bones's hands</i></p><p>Somewhat inspired by <a href="http://trekordie.tumblr.com/post/40550592378/dekelleyspinkiering-science-officer-spock">this gifset</a>.</p><p>(Incidentally, I sort of can't believe the first thing I write in months is Spock!porn. Not that I'm complaining, but.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fingerprints

Outside his window, the void of empty space is silent, still, and impossibly cold. He knows very well the scientific principles behind the thermal regulation, the inertial dampeners and artificial gravity that keep the crew warm, breathing, and grounded. Still, there are times long after the end of his shift, when he logically should have been asleep many hours ago, that the whirr and push and hiss of the ship seems deafening. His room seems too warm, the sheets on his bunk suffocating, the very fabric of his clothing scratching his skin.  
  
He is less knowledgeable about Starfleet medical regulations than the ship's medical personnel, and yet he is ninety-four percent sure that a routine physical examination does not require as much physical contact as the one he underwent earlier today. He is certain that it is possible to hold a stethoscope effectively without the fingers of that hand touching the patient's skin. He is doubly certain that Doctor McCoy knows this, because he managed his last physical examination without so much as a nanosecond of skin-to-skin contact between them. (In fact, if Spock's memory is correct - and it is - Dr. McCoy had worn gloves.)  
  
It is not, however, simply the matter of Doctor McCoy's very distracting hands that keeps him awake - nor, in fact, is it the very brief observations that transferred from the doctor's mind to his during the aforementioned examination. (The doctor seemed to find the difference between Vulcan and Human body temperature highly intriguing, and was also fascinated by the veins visible beneath his skin, and how they contrasted with the blue-green color seen in Humans.) All of this, Spock determines, could be easily ignored, put out of his mind and disregarded as having no logical meaning...were it not for what Jim did immediately following their return to the bridge.  
  
Jim clapped a hand on his shoulder as they walked back from sickbay. Spock thought nothing of it, since this gesture was one he often received from the Captain, particularly at the end of shift or when he retired from Spock's quarters after a game of chess. However, Spock estimates now that his hand stayed in place for an entire second longer than usual, a fact that set the tone for the Captain's behavior for the entire duration of the shift.  
  
Jim Kirk is a tactile being. This concept is well-recognized by nearly the entire crew of the Enterprise. However, his patterns of touch are typically predictable - a hand on the shoulder when he stands behind someone's chair, a pat on the back when he is particularly impressed with their performance, and the occasional arm around their shoulders when something went very well, indeed. The last one, Spock had noticed, was only given to either himself or to doctor McCoy, and only in the event that a mission's completion went exceptionally well. (The Captain's smile was particularly bright on those occasions.)  
  
Today's behavior was anything but predictable. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about the events of today's shift; their destination would take another two days to reach, and their long-range sensors had picked up very little besides debris from a nearby asteroid belt. However, concentrating on the route ahead proved to be a challenge, because the Captain seemed to have developed a sudden interest in the asteroid debris. He stood behind Spock's chair, as he often did, but instead of placing a hand on his shoulder, he knelt down and rested both arms on the back of his chair. This placed his face within unnecessarily close proximity of Spock's, and indeed, the sound of the Captain's voice so close to his ear nearly made him confuse two numbers when describing the mineral content of the debris. Still, it was nothing close to the distraction that Kirk's hands proved to be. When the Captain stood, the tips of his fingers barely brushed the curve of Spock's ear, and the thought transferred with it, though nothing more than an abstract feeling of intense interest, was enough to delay him in continuing with his calculations by a full seven seconds.  
  
The Captain did not stop at that, however. Throughout the shift he kept his hands in Spock's line of sight, whether it was stretching his wrists, brushing his hair back, or (and this memory makes him shiver) resting the knuckle of his index finger in his mouth. Worse still was when the Captain handed Spock a data PADD that needed his signature, and their fingers touched when he took it back. (The Captain was very, very focused on his eyes.) Spock knows that the Captain was not ignorant of what such contact means to a Vulcan. What solidifies this certainty all the more is the way the Jim's fingers had curled around each other upon his return to his seat, while Jim himself pointedly did not look in Spock's direction.  
  
Knowing all of that, Spock still might have slept after some deliberation, and perhaps meditation, to clear his mind. What was driving him mad at this hour, what made his room feel suffocatingly hot, his skin flushed with fire, his mind burning with questions, was the _look_ the Captain and Doctor McCoy exchanged in the turbolift after their shift had ended, followed by the briefest of glances in his direction.  
  
 _They are doing it on purpose._ The notion ought to enrage him, or at least give him a sense of grief that his friends would, for lack of a better term, _tease_ him in this way. Instead, to his shame, the thought rather excites him. Indeed, he can feel his arousal hot and firm between his legs, the soft cloth of his nightclothes irritating to his over-sensitized skin. His mind relives the day over and over, the feeling of two sets of hands on him, and he begins to wonder what it would feel like to feel both of their hands on his skin at the same time.  
  
With a frustrated half-snarl, he throws his blankets to one side and sits up, pulling his shirt off. The air feels no cooler on his skin, but it reminds him very acutely of the examination room, and he swears his skin remembers the exact points where Doctor McCoy's fingertips touched. He closes his eyes against the light from his chronometer, as though ashamed to face it. An unwise move; his mind crafts a new set of images, given a dark canvas on which to paint.

The doctor's hands are skilled and sure. They are the hands of a capable surgeon, warm and just a little rough from frequent sanitizing. His mind calls up memories he did not know he possessed: the twirl of a pen between his fingers, the sure grasp of a tricorder, the white-knuckled grip of a seat rail when their transfer shuttle encountered turbulence... Perhaps Spock has paid doctor McCoy's hands a bit more attention than previously surmised.  
  
Spock rationalizes that this is the most efficient way to induce sleep while he slowly slides the fingers of one hand across the back of the other. The thrill it sends down his spine is fuel to the fire, as it reminds him of the Captain's fingers against his own, the sheer intent with which he looked at him. He twines his fingers together and squeezes down, gasping shakily at how good the contact feels.  
  
He thinks of his Captain, his dearest friend, and his soft, smooth hands. He thinks of Jim's thumb tracing the shell of his ear, of his hands sliding down his arms, of their fingertips touching, gently, and then with purpose. A rush of need overtakes him, and he slides his waistband down roughly. The urge to take his arousal in hand and finish this quickly is strong, but some part of his mind tells him that if he doesn't satisfy this strange new longing, rest will not come easily.  
  
Instead, he chooses to indulge these fantasies under the cover of night, behind the doors of his quarters (and he cannot, _will_ not think of the fact that Jim's quarters are on the other side of their washroom). He thinks of doctor McCoy now, with those talented hands, sliding playfully over his own, stroking him slowly and surely (and he tries to mimic this motion with his own hand, now), carding his fingers through Spock's hair and gripping tight. (He grips himself tighter in response, moves his hand faster, imagining McCoy's passion.)  
  
His mind brings forth the image of a second set of hands, gentler but no less playful, sliding up his chest, curling around the back of his neck, bright-smiling eyes locked on his while Jim twines their fingers together, pulls them close...brings Spock's other hand up to his mouth and sucks gently on one of his fingers--  
  
Spock's climax hits him like a solar flare, setting his nerves afire as his back arches off the bed, groaning around the fingers he didn't even realize he had slipped into his own mouth. He collapses back down again, panting heavily, ashamed to find that sleep seems farther now than ever.

He stands, pulls his shirt back on, and walks unsteadily to the washroom, cleaning himself off and trying not to make too much noise as he washes his now-sensitive hands. It's a full two minutes before he realizes that he can see light from Kirk's cabin coming from the edge of his door frame. A chill of worry curls in the back of his mind, for surely there can be no good reason for the Captain to be awake at this hour. He knocks softly at the door, genuinely surprised to hear his Captain's voice.  
  
"Come!"  
  
And then another voice he almost recognizes, hushed and muttering. He opens the door to find, much to his shock, Jim and Doctor McCoy, with an open bottle of brandy on the table between them.  
  
"Captain," it takes every ounce of control he has not to let his confusion show. "Doctor. What are the two of you doing at this hour?"  
  
"Oh, we're just enjoying a nice glass of Saurian brandy between friends." Jim stands and walks over to him, once again placing a hand on Spock's shoulder. However, the collar of his nightclothes is approximately three inches wider than that of his uniform, and so the very tip of Jim's thumb touches his collarbone. It's enough to tell him what Jim is thinking ( _far too passionate to put into words_ ), and from the gleam in his eyes, Doctor McCoy is thinking much the same thing as he pours a third glass of brandy.  
  
"Good brandy should be shared, you know," he leans back in his seat and slides the glass across the table like an invitation. "Care to join us?"  
  
For the shortest moment, fear threatens to wind its way up the base of Spock's spine, and then he looks at Jim again and sees a sincerity he cannot be imagining, feels a wave of naked affection wash over him. McCoy has a smile that is much less sardonic than he would likely admit. The fear dissipates like so much asteroid debris. He finds himself smiling.  
  
"Thank you, Doctor. I believe I will have a brandy."


End file.
